


out of reach

by sirnando



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, angstiness, but dont worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-20 23:50:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14904521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirnando/pseuds/sirnando
Summary: It had always been friendship between them. Cristiano would hop the fence every weekend at six in the morning, his coffee already steaming on Iker’s counter. They liked to watch the sun rise on Iker’s balcony, sipping from their mugs and scalding their tongues.





	out of reach

**Author's Note:**

> this is for deryck, sending a million hearts your way

It had always been friendship between them. Cristiano would hop the fence every weekend at six in the morning, his coffee already steaming on Iker’s counter. They liked to watch the sun rise on Iker’s balcony, sipping from their mugs and scalding their tongues.

Iker had always been quite the gardner, fingernails caked with dirt and a floppy sun hat on his head. It was no surprise that he was always so pale, arms sticky from sun lotion. He warned Cristiano about the risks of sun exposure while they planted daffodils, but Cris assured him he was born into sunlight’s embrace.

Neither drank alcohol. Dipped their pinkies in wine at social events and wiped spilled vodka off their pants, courtesy of Sergio. Sparkling water was their drink of choice. Cristiano had his cupboards lined with it, waiting for the nights that Iker came over with two Cola Caos and a wine glass. They watched vintage Portuguese movies, films that Cristiano remembered his mother watching when they were younger. And always without subtitles, because he insisted knowing another language wouldn’t hurt Iker. There were always mounds of blankets surrounding them, piles of pillows, just in case it was one of those nights that Iker pretended he was too tired to jump the fence back home and stayed over. One of those nights that Cristiano decided there would be no harm in falling asleep beside him.

They wrote bad poems on napkins and had dramatic readings in the night—lights dimmed, candles lit. Cristiano offered to start a book club, Iker agreed but no one else on the team seemed interested in the idea. So instead they started a book club partnership. One book per month, and the discussions took place in the one set of windows which were directly across from one another—Iker in his home, Cristiano in his.

And it was well developed friendship whose timeline was littered with spontaneous moments of intimacy. Tingling fingers gripping one another, entangled naps in sterile hotel rooms and chaste kisses behind lockers, on a bus in celebration. But they were moments unspoken of, moments that ended with warmer cheeks and hazy eyes, butterflies.

There was a thin line separating their friendship and what they dreamed about behind closed doors, alone. And they had their opportunities. Spontaneous urges begged them to hop over the line, rather than keep hovering around it forever, but they feared losing the other. Better an eternity of _what if_ ’s than one without each other. Verbal expression of emotions was never a strength for either.

And there was no longer any reason to dwell on endless possibilities because they had swapped the countries they called home and Iker was on a plane to Portugal.

-

Cristiano visited three years after Iker’s departure. One round trip ticket to Porto that had shriveled at the edges due to Cristiano’s constant touching. Nerves. Uncertainty.

Iker sent monthly letters, something Cristiano appreciated—a flavor of an older generation. They were always signed _Yours, Iker_ at the end. A little white lie that tightened Cristiano’s heart because Iker had always belonged to more than one person. One letter in particular had a P.S. at the bottom: _I’d sure love if we could see each other. My home in Porto is always open to you._ So there Cristiano was, sweating at an airport with one carry on bag fit for three days.

He hadn’t notified Iker of his decision to come visit. Something compelled him to make it a surprise—it was a good idea to make it a surprise—but he cursed himself now. He should’ve written, should have at least included something in the last note that hinted at a possible trip to Porto. Iker was a busy man with more responsibilities than waiting around for Cristiano to appear.

-

The hair was graying at Iker’s temples. The hollows in his cheeks were more defined, purple bags below his eyes. The result of a man ripped from his home. Cristiano caught himself mid-wince.

His arms buzzed by his sides, fingers flexing, so badly wanting to reach out and wrap their fractured bodies together. Fold their limbs into the crook of the sofa and forget. Just focus on the rhythm of their breaths, the threads in the pillows and the sunshine warming the nape of their necks.

But he didn’t. Rather stood in the doorway and said hello like a proper friend would. Slowly sipped the lemonade from the glass Iker offered while they sat on his terrace, murmuring a _yes, no, sometimes_ to the questions Iker posed.

He’d forgotten why he’d come—why he initially decided that this would be a proper idea to come unannounced, to come at all. Iker’s written offer was now just an ink smudge in his memory.

-

Iker had only compliments for Portugal. For his neighbors, for his teammates, for his new fans. But one thing he could not find it within himself to praise was the food. He contracted something like food poisoning his first week, panicked and interpreted it as a sign that he didn’t belong here. That he shouldn’t be here, that he should’ve retired but instead walked into a mistake he could not erase.

The worry subsided after his stomach settled, but he found a local Spanish store whose owners now had his groceries prepared before he walked in.

There was a stationery shop nearby as well. He’d walk the aisles, thumbing through all the cardstock, reading the labels of pens before deciding on the perfect one. He laughed that leaving Spain aged him, that he’d become invested in the hobbies his grandparents had been fond of. Cristiano didn’t know how to tell him nothing had truly changed.

 _And you?_ The question was wide open—a hundred different ways to answer it. A hundred different anecdotes to tell. About the dozens of crumpled papers that flowed out of his trash bin—rough drafts of imperfect letters. He could tell Iker that he’d started biting his nails again, the opposite of what he’d promised him three years ago. That he’d moved homes because the vacant one beside his had been filled with someone other than Iker. That he’d also contracted something along the lines of stomach poisoning when Iker left, but his hadn’t settled since. So he answered with _pretty good_ because there was too much to unravel otherwise.

-

The stay was _pleasant_ , Cristiano reflected on the third day. A dry word, but the trip was everything that Cristiano had expected. All souls, no matter how close it seemed, drifted after time apart.

Cristiano wasn’t sure what he’d expected out of this. He’d been prepared for things not resuming as they used to be and was ready for the pinch of awkwardness that laced each of their conversations, for the dry mouths with nothing left to stay. Three years with nothing but pieces of paper exchanged between them was ample time for change.

And yet here he was, once again on Iker’s balcony as their reunion came to a close, the same feeling of desperation suddenly digging itself up from the past—something he’d swallowed that was clawing its way back up again.

They’d ignored _this_ before, they had set it aside and were a few hours away from doing the same again and—

 _I loved you,_ the words rang in Cristiano’s ears, thickened the silence between them. Suffocating.

Embarrassment immediately replaced desperation. Like he’d spat up on Iker’s floor and they were sitting there, looking at it and internally deciding who was responsible for cleaning it up.

Cristiano considered saying sorry. Changing the subject. Getting up and leaving. But before he could choose, knuckles white from how tightly he was gripping the armrest, Iker replied with _I still do._


End file.
